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paraded

These tumultuous shops of noise

Effectual whispers, whose still voice
The soul itself more feels than hears.

Amorous languishments, luminous trances,

Sights which are not seen with eyes,
Spiritual and soul-piercing glances :

Whose pure and subtle lightning flies
Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire;
And melts it down in sweet desire :

Yet does not stay
To ask the windows leave to

pass
that

way.

Delicious deaths, soft exhalations
Of soul; dear and divine annihilations ;

A thousand unknown rites
Of joys, and rarified delights.

A hundred thousand goods, glories, and graces,

And many a mystic thing,

Which the divine embraces,
Of the dear spouse of spirits with them will bring;

For which it is no shame
That dull mortality must not know a name.

Of all this store
! Of blessings, and ten thousand more,

If when He come
He find the heart from home,

Doubtless He will unload
Himself some otherwhere,

And pour abroad

His precious sweets,
On the fair soul whom first he meets.

O fair! O fortunate! O rich! O dear !

O happy, and thrice happy she,
Dear silver-breasted dove
Whoe'er she be,
Whose early love,

With wingèd vows,
Makes haste to meet her morning spouse,
And close with his immortal kisses !

Happy, indeed, who never misses
To improve that precious hour :

And every day

Seize her sweet prey,
All fresh and fragrant as he rises,
Dropping, with a balmy shower,
A delicious dew of spices.

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0, let the blessful heart hold fast Her heavenly armful, she shall taste At once ten thousand paradises ;

She shall have power

To rifle and deflower
The rich and roseal spring of those rare sweets,
Which with a swelling bosom there she meets,
Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures

Of pure inebriating pleasures : Happy proof she shall discover,

What joy, what bliss,

F

How
many

heavens at once it is, To have a God become her lover!

ON MR. G. HERBERT'S BOOK, Entitled, The Temple of Sacred Poems," sent to a

Gentlewoman.

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NOW
you, fair, on what

you

look ?
Divinest love lies in this book,

Expecting fire from your eyes,
To kindle this His sacrifice.
When your hands untie these strings,
Think you've an angel by the wings;
One that gladly will be nigh
To wait upon each morning sigh,
To flutter in the balmy air
Of your well-perfumèd prayer.
These white plumes of His He'll lend you,
Which every day to heaven will send you ;
To take acquaintance of the sphere,
And all the smooth-faced kindred there.
And though Herbert's name do owe
These devotions, fairest, know
That while I lay them on the shrine
Of your white hand, they are mine.

A HYMN TO THE NAME AND HONOUR OF

THE ADMIRABLE SAINT TERESA, Foundress of the Reformation of the discalced Carmelites, both men and women ; a woman for angelical height of speculation, for masculine courage of performance, more than a woman ; who, yet a child, outran maturity, and durst plot

a martyrdom.

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OVE, thou art absolute, sole Lord
Of life and death. To prove the word,

We'll now appeal to none of all
Those thy old soldiers, great and tall,
Ripe men ofsmartyrdom, that could reach down
With strong arms their triumphant crown:
Such as could with lusty breath
Speak loud, unto the face of death,
Their great Lord's glorious name; to none
Of those whose spacious bosoms spread a throne
For love at large to fill; spare blood and sweat:
We'll see Him take a private seat,
And make His mansion in the mild
And milky soul of a soft child.

Scarce has she learnt to lisp a name
Of martyr, yet she thinks it shame
Life should so long play with that breath
Which spent can buy so brave a death.

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She never undertook to know
What death with love should have to do.
Nor has she e'er yet understood
Why, to show love, she should shed blood;
Yet, though she cannot tell you why,
She can love, and she can die.
Scarce has she blood enough to make
A guilty sword blush for her sake;

Yet has a heart dares hope to prove
Love

ther

How much less strong is death than love.
Be love but there; let

poor

six

years
Be posed with the maturest fears

Man trembles at, we straight shall find
-Love knows no nonage, nor the mind. immer

maturity
'Tis love, not years or limbs, that can

Make the martyr, or the man.
Love burns Love touch'd her heart, and lo! it beats
Drink coll dTligh, and burns with such brave heats ;
Breathes fore Such thirst to die, as dares drink up

A thousand cold deaths, in one cup.
Good reason, for she breathes all fire ;
Her weak breast heaves with strong desire
Of what she may, with fruitless wishes,
Seek for amongst her mother's kisses.
Since 'tis not to be had at home,
She'll travel to a/martyrdom.
No home for her confesses she,
But where she may a martyr be.
She'll to the Moors, and trade with them,
For this unvalued diadem ;Ceown

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